THE NAMINGS

They named him Rhipidura Leucophrys, and everyone said, ‘Apart from olive oil, that is what you get when you associate with Greeks, Italians and other Mediterranean types’.

We just called him Willie.

Dapper little feller was our Willie, always cheerful, busy and ready for a chit chat. The problem was he was hyper active, never standing still for more than two minutes. Discussing social affairs with Willie was like trying to hold an intelligent conversation with a deranged metronome.

Karen Louise claimed that Willie was simply oversexed. Karen Louise, a distinguished expert upon all such matters, noted Willie’s obsession with flirting.
He was especially adept at flicking his bushy white eyebrows when chatting up any available local female who moved into his area of social activity.

Claude, my best Aboriginal mate, held quite a different opinion. “Jeez, brother, never talk in front of that feller. He steals yer words and tells yer secrets to your enemies.’

Many locals dismissed Claude’s advice as indigenous, hypothetical balderdash, then, to be on the safe side, quickly touched a piece of wood for good luck, and after casting sanctimonious looks and several signs of the cross piously asked ‘What enemies? We are good Christians, we don’t have enemies.’

None of this of course ever worried our Willie.

He was far too busy flitting around here, there and everywhere, just biding his time to spot the arrival of his special friend Septimius Stargatt, our regular gregarious postie.

Septimius was quite unique. Not only was he the seventh son, he also claimed direct linage from yet another seventh son, hence being the seventh son of a seventh son, which made him something of a classic forty-niner.

Sadly, Septimius never enjoyed his birth naming.

At school, the other horrors held their noses between forefinger and thumb and christened him Septic, a nickname he carried well into adulthood, until in desperation, Dot, his ever-loving missus, invited all their friends to a huge party, tapped her hand on top of his almost hairless pate, and renamed him “Curly.”

As a dedicated member of Australia Post, in all weathers fine and foul, with boundless joviality, measured with postal efficiency, forever dispensing waves of passing greeting, and even the occasional brief chat with a lurking home-owner, Curly Stargatt did manoeuvre his little Honda motorbike through the hilly circuits of our territory.

‘Why is it you only bring me lousy bills?’ complained the bloke at number 86.

‘Blame it on the creation of the repulsive computer,’ moaned Curly. ‘Folks do not write letters anymore. Instead they rely, mate, on the speed of the ubiquitous bloody email. Soon, with only bills to deliver, your poor friend and dedicated public servant, Curly Septimius Stargatt, will be consigned to the land of unemployment.’
Then he offered, as an afterthought … ‘Of course you could write letters to yourself. Provided you stuck a stamp on the envelope I would be most happy to deliver them to you.’

‘You are all heart, Curly,’ agreed number 86. ‘Sadly it would seem that the era of romantic correspondence has surely died forever.’

“Dying but not quite dead yet. Here, my friend, have a quick sniff of this,’ said Curly, waving a long envelope under the nose of 86. ‘I would bet my entire collection of fur-lined golfer’s jockstraps … that perfume spells massive romance. This is female pheromone par excellence. Some folks have all the luck, and this one is going direct to the feller at 108.’

‘What?!’ exclaimed an exasperated 86. ‘What?! George Tuntable, at 108! Why, the sly old codger told me had prostate problems, couldn’t get into that romantic stuff anymore. The cunning old bugger. Hell, mate, George is next to being a total recluse.
I only see him when he is out walking the dog to do a spot of shopping. Here, Curly, give me another sniff of that envelope. I want to enjoy a bit of what he is getting … oooooh, such bliss.’

Like many semi-reclusive, single, ancient souls, George Tuntable relied on a strict routine to provide security and purpose to his everyday lifestyle. Only the advent of health problems, inclement weather or matters beyond his control would cause him to compromise such observance.

The dog had long taken cognizance of his master’s wishes in respect of house rules.
Indeed as they grew older together, there was both comfort and assurance in the knowing.

George dropped the envelope on the kitchen table and went to pour the morning cuppa of fresh ginger green tea, a wondrous brew which, according to George, was guaranteed to not only lengthen ones lifespan, but also improve the efficacy of digestion and pleasureful movements within the bowel. Both of which were important consideration for the welfare of George Tuntable.

The ritual of taking morning tea was shared by both man and beast. The dog silently lapped away at his own bowl of the magic brew and, having satisfied the supervision of his master, quietly begged for the two biscuits it certainly knew were to follow.

‘Seems you and I have been invited to the naming ceremony of some rotten kid,’ George informed the dog. George held the invitation in front of the dog’s eyeballs.
‘Look, it says right here: “Mr George Tuntable and friend are invited to please come and join in the celebration of Prunella’s Naming Ceremony.” Well, what do you know about that, eh?

‘It says bring a friend. Well, you are my best friend. Better still, they are going to hold this little shindy in the local park, so you can leave lots of messages for your hairy mates in the process. Hell, when I was a kid they called them christenings and they held them in a church. Important things is names,’ says George. ‘Like you, for instance, so small you could sit in the palm of my hand. Took you to the vets to cop your injections and have a council chip inserted in your neck. The lady behind the counter looks at me and says “Name?”

’”George Tuntable”, says I.

’”No, Mr Tuntable, I need the dog’s name. Human names are never important in a veterinary clinic. Here it is the animal’s name that is listed on the register.”’

‘Well I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, at that point in time, you were a nameless little shit, so I had to do some rapid thinking. Sitting by the wall was a bloke reading the morning paper. An inspired thought exploded in my cranium. Cripes, you sure didn’t look like a Rupert, but then and there I instantly named you, Mr Murdoch.’

The sun shone for the first time in three days. The birds were most pleased that the sky had stopped crying. George and Mr Murdoch discussed the matter, then decided to take the longer route to the park, one that wound its way with twists and turns, following the course of the river.

With time to spare, George Tuntable’s life-long habit was to never be late for an appointment.

‘You know, Mr. Murdoch, names are more important than we sometimes think.
Of course we could have numbers, but hell, some of us would end up with numbers way too long to remember. Instead we dream up crazy names for each other while often never giving consideration to the after effects of such namings.

‘Take me, for example. Everyone calls me George. You, Mr Murdoch, have never known me to be anything other than George Tuntable. But it was not always like that, old son. You see, my old man was a Scotsman, and when I was born he branded me with one of his family names.

‘He called me Grier. Scottish for “watchful”, I believe.

‘Problem is, as far as I know, not many folks in these parts carry that brand. I was probably the only one. Still, when I was born, what your father gave you is what you lived with, so Grier it was until I managed to walk in long pants. I lived a life of constant explanation … “How do you spell that?”…”What does that mean?”…. “Heck, I thought that was a girl’s name!”, and on and on.

‘So, Mr Murdoch, I took to signing my name G Tuntable, and folks solved the problem for me, reckoning the letter G stood for George. And who was I to discourage the name change, eh? So George it was, and George it will remain until I trot off to join the fairies.

‘Fair dinkum Mr Murdoch, in theory you could not pick a better spot in which to hold a naming. Mind you, in the light of day, I am thinking differently. The problem is, they must have been pissed out of their tiny minds, at two in the morning on a dark and stormy night, when it came to the moment of the great decision.

‘As we sit upon this grassy bank to observe the merry gathering of assorted friends and relatives, you cannot fail to absorb the beauty of the surrounding trees, the huge ornamental pond, the meandering footpaths, the tran… no, Mr Murdoch, I cannot say tranquillity … that indeed would be a gross error of statement. Within a few metres of our backs there flows what must indeed be the busiest highway for a multitude of roaring heavy transport. Look upwards, Mr Murdoch, and observe how we sit directly below the flight path for the huge landing jets.

‘Certainly we sit next to each other, Mr Murdoch, yet for you to hear my humble soliloquy I am obliged to shout my message. Even with your sharp ears, can you hear what the celebrant is now announcing? I fear not, Mr Murdoch. Better we should have taken a course in long-distance lip reading.

‘Do you notice how the sixty odd invited guests have split into two distinct camps?

‘Relatives and friends of Jonathan Hunter, the proud, adoring, good Anglo-Saxon father of the rotten kid, are all gathered on the right, while all the Maori, Wharetohunga mob are hanging out to the left, and even way up here I may catch the odd word or expression of dissent. Floating upon the wind, a strident lady’s voice, in a rare moment of quietude, was clearly heard to proclaim, ‘Why in the hell are we standing in this soggy, muddy, noisy park? For crying out loud, Christenings are supposed to be in a church!’

All further morphological protest was lost within the roar of a massive jet coming in to land. ‘I swear, Mr Murdoch, this time I observed somebody actually waving to me from up there.’

Two distinct factions seemed to have developed during the course of the celebration.
Those who seriously wished to observe the naming of the rotten kid, and those who, under pain of evil death from their ever-loving spouses, only came along for the ride.
Somehow the ancient tradition of naming the child never seemed to rate highly when compared with sucking a cold one while you watched the footy on TV.

Maori members of the first faction had become intently focused on the fact that the father of the baby in question had only chosen an Anglo-Saxon name to recognise one of his financially secure relatives. Much future blessings were expected to flow from bestowing such an honour.

Sadly he had quite overlooked the fact that Maoris are people too and they have beautiful girl names like Arini, Ngaire, Tui and Aroha … all of which should be up for negotiation.

Confucius say, “Man who do not negotiate with Maori often end up with boiled head in pot.

At this point in the celebrations George and Mr Murdoch quietly walked the periphery of the gathering. Seems the elderly gent wished to gain a better knowledge of happenings within the two camps and his exercise proved not to pass unrewarded

‘I’m telling yer, that was Virgin Deluxe that just landed.’

‘It was a flaming Jetstar, yer great nong.’

‘Don’t call me a nong, you stupid mug, I know a Virgin when I see one, just go ask me missus. Isn’t that right, love?’

‘I’m telling youse it was a bloody Jetstar. Hey, Amonga, tell this pakeha teko tarau it was a Jetstar.’

Amonga turned out to be three meters tall, with the body size of a bull elephant, arms and shoulders covered in tatts and the type of feller you would prefer to have on your side if it came to an argument.

There is an inherent gene sleeping in all Anglo-Saxons males which, upon revival, makes it compulsory for them to lose all sense of personal wellbeing in certain situations. In spite of ever-hovering clouds of trepidation, they stupidly puff out the puny chest then offer a squeaky comment like … ‘It was a Virgin Deluxe, you great bloody Kiwi nong’. Then run behind the missus to safely avoid the dreaded curse of the Wharetohunga.

Meanwhile, nobody seemed to notice that the central figure to this quickly disintegrating celebration, namely the totally-ignored official registered celebrant, was on the verge of an explosive mental breakdown the like of which she had never experienced in her glorious, distinguished career.

Angela MacKinnon was her name. She’d made the fatal mistake of sloshing down the entire contents of a bottle offered to her by an astonished Kiwi, mistakenly believing the lady might enjoy a sip or two.

Miss MacKinnon kicked of her shoes, scooped books and papers off the table, then climbed atop to command attention. With a suggestion of slightly slurred words, the now totally insane Angela pronounced for one and all to hear …

‘By the powers invested in me as a registered naming and marriage celebrant, I now officially name this beautiful brat … PRUNELLA ARINI NGAIRE TUI AROHA JETSTAR VIRGIN DELUXE HUNTER … and lang may her lum reek.’

Poor Angela, quite exhausted from all the stress of the moment, collapsed on the table. She was completely oblivious to the sight of blows being exchanged in the background. Angry accusations and claret had started to flow.

‘Come, Mr Murdoch,’ said George. ‘As a humane pacifist I cannot abide the sight of blood. Let us quietly disappear amongst the trees.

‘As we walk, maybe we could ponder upon the importance of feeding garlic impregnated food to livestock, thereby reducing the methane emissions caused by excessive cow flatulence. I am assured it would greatly assist in the battle against global warming …

‘But what name would you give that project Mr Murdoch?’

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Tags:

anglo, celebrant, grier, kiwi, maori, mr, murdoch, names, park, saxon and willie